


drowning me, surrounding me

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Desperation, Established Relationship, M/M, Scent Marking, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22844695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jask drinks too much and Geralt enjoys the consequences.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 284





	drowning me, surrounding me

It’s the erveluce that goes through him, it’s breakneck speeds, really, dry and sweet and heady in its taste and smell. And the way it sends him straight to pleasant warmth, in the way it settles into his blood and in the way Geralt cups the wine glass between his fingers, aerating the drink, and luxuriates in every sip. His favorite wine, he’s said once or twice. Jaskier couldn’t forget that, even if he tried. Geralt, willingly giving him details about himself. Still a rare enough thing, even now. Jask drinks in the offhand comment the way he drinks in the wine, and gets more and more giddy as the night wears on. 

His head gets fuzzier and fuzzier as the night goes on, and Geralt’s smile gets softer, and warmer, and more beautiful.

And then he wakes up, sprawled out in bed next to Geralt, head aching and desperate for a piss. He almost laughs into the pillows- it’s been a long time since he’s gotten drunk, like that- but it does no favors for his head or bladder and he has to hold himself up against the wall so he doesn’t fall over on his way back to bed afterwards. 

He sleeps for awhile longer.

When he wakes up again, his head is clearer. Daylight’s barely on the horizon, and Geralt’s still asleep next to him. He’s so comfortably warm that he has absolutely no plans to move, so despite the fact his bladder’s woken him up- again, meanwhile, Geralt just sleeps for  _ ages _ without twitching, damn him and his witcherness- Jask does something potentially stupid: rolls over and goes back to sleep. If he shifts a bit on the spot and squeezes his thighs together, it’s not like Geralt’s awake to know and, weeeeell, he’ll get up before it gets too dire.

For now, he lets himself drift off again. Just a little longer, that’s all.

Daylight is streaming through the windows when he wakes up again, and Geralt’s awake, too. Still laying in bed next to him, arms folded behind his head, looking content. Handsome and not hungover. ... oof, and Jaskier’s still in that mood, huh. He’s not even drunk now, either. He guesses the affectionate state of mind’s carried into the morning.

He  _ likes _ being affectionate. Likes it a lot, actually, but Geralt’s less inclined for touchy-feely than Jaskier’s used to... not that he  _ minds _ the love bites and carelessly placed bruises. He minds them a lot less than he ought to, honestly, but the only time he really gets overly affectionate Geralt is... after sex, or in the morning. He’s trying to break Geralt of that habit, of  _ not _ letting himself be... vulnerable. But Geralt is Geralt and Geralt’s a  _ witcher, _ so that’s a tough thing to push past.

... anyway, Jask’s just being  _ fussy. _ He’s not at all unhappy here. He just wishes Geralt wasn’t so  _ pig-headed _ when it came to certain things-

“Morning,” Geralt says without looking, and Jaskier goes flush with happiness anew.

“Morning,” he greets, and leans over to curl up against his chest- and then gets reminded of the erveluce from the night before. Very reminded. As in, immediately curling over and shoving his hand between his legs reminded that he’d put off the privy. “Oh-  _ fuck!” _

He’s preoccupied enough that he’s not looking at Geralt now, but there’s a moment of silence and then- laughter. It’s almost distracting, but not quite enough. “For fuck’s sake, Jaskier.” Geralt’s teasing, just about. He’d appreciate it more if he wasn’t, he didn’t know,  _ about to piss the bed, _ maybe. “Put it off too long, then?” Definitely teasing. 

“Sh-Shut up-” Jaskier manages, and- oh hell, it  _ is _ funny. It’s ridiculous. He’s stupid.  _ This _ is stupid, and it’s hilarious. But, yikes, he can’t afford to laugh right now. He needs to be out of here, like, an age ago. “Fuck you and your erveluce,” he breathes, and steels himself for pushing himself up and getting out of bed.

“Not my fault you can’t hold your liquor.” Geralt snorts softly. “Or your bladder.”

“Shut up!” he snaps, and he’s about to start laughing,  _ anyway, _ fuck. “Listen- I’m just going- I’m going to run, and-” He gives his prick one last squeeze and pushes himself up, and oh, that  _ hurts.  _ “Nghh- and- be right back, hold that thought-”

“Hold you, more like.”

Then Geralt has to go and put his hands on him, and Jaskier can’t even open his mouth before he’s physically  _ pulled over, _ pulled onto Geralt’s lap and Jask yelps as he’s manhandled. “Geralt!” He wants to screech and doesn’t dare, can’t take a deep enough breath and he’s barely hanging on by a thread now anyway.  _ “Geralt,” _ he whines, and wriggles. “What are y-”

Geralt presses a hand to the small of Jaskier’s back, and sits up enough to capture his mouth.

_ What are you doing? _ he thinks, and can’t say. He wants to kiss him back, so he does, and squirms on his lap. “Geralt-” Yeah, he appreciates the affection like hell, but shit, why’s Geralt gotta pick  _ now- _

The way he writhes against Geralt’s lap, and the way Geralt kisses him as he does- determined, interested, oh god so- might have a little bit of explanation to it. But he can’t keep himself still, and he can’t keep himself quiet as he rears back from Geralt’s mouth in what’s beginning to be a panic.  _ “Geralt, _ I have to-”

“Stay put.”

It isn’t quite a demand, but it isn’t quite a question, either. Either way, it still makes him pause, a little, because the tone of voice... Geralt’s _interested interested._ _Too_ interested. And it makes Jaskier groan, even as Geralt kisses him again, deep but hurried. Like the pain in his gut, deep-seated and tension ramping higher.

“Geralt,” he starts, trying to find the way to word this. But his mind’s preoccupied, and there’s no delicate way to put it. “Are you- you’re into this,” he accuses. “Are you into this, and I haven’t known?”

He’s trying to think back, trying to think if Geralt’s ever shown any kind of inkling towards  _ urination, _ any time Jask has stopped off to relieve himself, but he can’t really recall, and it’s not a good line of thought to follow right now. But his voice is judgment free. He’s open-minded here. Rarely has he found something so perverse he’s put his foot down on a hard ‘no thank you,’ but they don’t have a lot of time to figure this out right now. But he’s willing, if not anxious.

“Dunno,” Geralt says, and bites his collarbone.

“God!  _ Fuck-” _

Geralt hangs onto his hips, and shifts him so he’s straddling one of his thighs. Jaskier slots into place too eagerly, something to help him hold on. “Geralt-” he starts again, low and a warning, that he needs something other than vague answers and delayed responses.

“I like you squirming,” Geralt says, and kisses his jaw. “You look good like this. Flushed and fidgeting.”

Somehow Jaskier burns brighter, and hotter, even as it settles into hot, sharp pinpricks of need, and  _ need. _ The compliment lands true, but he can’t hang onto it. “Of course you do,” he replies, and he’s practically rutting his thigh already. “But squirming isn’t going- mm- isn’t going to  _ help, _ in a minute, Geralt-”

“Uh huh.”

He groans again, leaning his head forward on Geralt’s shoulder. “You  _ want  _ me to lose it.” It’s not as offensive as he’d think, or maybe that’s just the urge pressing at him. He just wants to go. Needs to go.

Geralt smooths a hand up his spine, and stops at the base of his neck. “Never had a problem releasing on me before.”

“That’s-” He laughs, a short, sharp noise that ends up stealing his breath away, the pain that comes after is white-hot and agony as he feels  _ wet, _ just a little. He grinds down harder, and panics harder.  _ “- different-” _ he gasps, and shakes.

“Yeah.” Geralt agrees. “You’re marking me, this way.”

“Ohhh.” So there’s  _ that. _ Figures. Geralt, always dealing with monsters and animalistic behavior from them... of course there’s no offense taken in Jaskier marking  _ him. _ Geralt wants him to, and that makes Jaskier have to admit there’s a really strong thrill that comes with the idea. Geralt wants him to, and Jaskier  _ wants _ to. “You want me to  _ claim _ you.”

“Yeah.”

“So everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Yeah.”

“You are mine- fuck,” he mutters. It isn’t like he hasn’t already made a decision here. It sounds too...  _ tempting,  _ and he’s never been good at resisting that. And while he’s sure if he backed out now, Geralt would literally haul him from bed and mow down anyone in the way between Point A and Point wherever the fuck was a suitable place to have a piss- he can’t recall, right now- it’s probably a bit late for it, anyway. “Fuck,” he whispers again, and grips onto Geralt’s arms. “Fuck you and your erveluce,” he repeats, and giggles again despite himself.

“Need to get it more often, at this rate,” Geralt says, with that kind of humor in his voice that would knock Jaskier breathless if he had any extra breath to give right now.

“In- incorrigible man- ah-” It hurts now, badly, in a way like when he’s waited too long composing or during a performance. The cramp hits him in a full body seize and a rush of heat. Geralt can  _ feel _ it on his skin now, surely, even if he’s probably been able to smell it, and- fuck, oh god. It takes him a minute to realize he’s making noise. Gasping, humming, whimpering? A long, low, drawn out noise under his breath that he can’t quite stop, no matter how much he wants to. The pain drags him along almost as much as the desire. He doesn’t know if he’s going to combust into fire, or burst into tears, rocking into Geralt like this.

“Jask.” His hands are all over him, his back, his hair, his hips. Soothing and encouraging and teasing. “Jaskier.”

“Ca-can’t hold it,” he chokes, which is an understatement of the century, given the steady leaks and useless dribbles he can’t stave off. He doesn’t know if he wants to. He absolutely doesn’t want to.

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees, again. “I know.”

Something about it hits like a benediction. Reverence in Geralt’s tone that still belays the excitement, the  _ want, _ and it sounds like every prayer he’s heard given at the temple of Melitele or shouted from the lips of priests of the Eternal Fire. A sermon and a blessing, delivering him from failure and sin.

He’s never been a religious man, but something about it feels like rapture when his control is stripped away and he lets go astride Geralt’s lap. 

It... happens all at once, and is a  _ lot.  _ It feels in a way that’s deeper than springing up from his song book or begging a break in the music to rush for the nearest alley wall. The pressure is different, the release is intense. He feels dizzy and wet and warm, like it’s suffusing the whole of his body instead of his thighs and arse and Geralt- and  _ Geralt. _ He gasps, small and shallow, and can’t lift his head from Geralt’s shoulder even if he wanted to. He doesn’t try to.

In fact, he doesn’t try to move at all. He just sags a little further against Geralt’s torso, and stops holding onto his arms so tight. He’s probably giving him bruises, not that Geralt’s ever objected to Jaskier giving him anything  _ else. _ Now more than ever, huh.

That almost makes him want to laugh again, but he’s still floating, and still pissing- fuck, like he  _ hadn’t _ gotten up once in the middle of the night to begin with, pathetic  _ humanity _ biting him in the arse again- here he snickers, just once- what a  _ morning! _

The songs he could sing about release and relief.

The tightness in his abdomen finally lessened, need-want-desire coming to a slow trickle and stop, he’s then left with the fact  _ he’s _ the one meant to have words in this relationship, and he’s got... absolutely no idea how to break the ice after you’ve just pissed yourself on your dear witcher partner.

He sighs softly instead, and the rest of the tension flees. Geralt takes a breath himself, long and drawn out. Deep. His hair ruffles, and the blood rushes from Jaskier’s cheeks and down to his cock instead, even though the embarrassment lingers. But not, apparently, enough to stop him going hard over all of this.

“What are you  _ doing?” _ he groans, because Geralt doesn’t  _ need _ to breathe in like that. Jask can smell it himself, Geralt doesn’t need to- to drink it in like that. (Oh, that  _ wording.) _ “Why’re you- I- I smell like an outhouse, don’t  _ sniff.” _

“You smell  _ considerably _ better than the latrine,” Geralt says, mouthing against his neck again. “Trust me.”

“I-”

“You smell like  _ you. _ It’s good.”

“I- I-” Hell, what does he say to that? He can’t speak for the smell of piss in the air, but asides  _ Nuits de Beauclair, _ he can’t imagine what he  _ smells _ like. “... imagine you smell like me now, too,” he says instead, quieter.

“Mhm.” Geralt noses his ear. “Your scent’s all over me.”

... god, just when he’d thought he’d seen and heard and felt it all. He raises his head from Geralt’s shoulder, and turns his face to kiss him. It’s an urgent thing, primal in a way he hasn’t felt himself in a long while.

Well, except for a moment ago-

He laughs against his mouth, and sweeps his hands down his chest. “God, Geralt,” he gasps. “The things you make me  _ do-” _

“I didn’t make you do anything.”

“What you coax out of me,” he continues, and is just working into Geralt’s mouth when his hand lands, unthinking, on a patch of Geralt’s trousers that are now soaked with Jaskier’s own urine, and he jerks his hand back with a noise of startled disgust. 

Geralt  _ laughs. _ “Yeah. Piss,” he deadtones, and leans back to look at him.

“That’s not-” He waves his hands, trying to dry the one in a way that’s ludicrous because they’re both wet torso down and getting cold now, anyway. “It’s  _ different! _ It’s more offensive,  _ now-” _

“Is it?” Geralt asks, plaintive. 

“It-” He doesn’t finish. Geralt puts one of his big hands at the front of his sleep pants, still absolutely drenched, thank you, and  _ squeezes _ his cock.  _ “Oh! _ Geralt-”

“I’m not offended,” Geralt says, voice low.

The heat flares hot in his body again, and Geralt kisses him with such urgency that Jaskier thinks he just may be coaxed to try experimenting again.

**Author's Note:**

> i'll be the change i want in this fandom i guess --- where's all the piss fic? i'm begging, folks... feed this kink..... please..


End file.
